Absolute Darkness
by Silmarilz1701
Summary: Elenwë hated the Helcaraxë. But she refused to let the hate define her. Instead she let her thoughts dwell on her spark of hope, Itarillë. But the Grinding Ice held more than just wind and fog.


_A/N: A tragic story_

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**Elenwë**

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"_Gold were the leaves of the tree of the Day_

_And silver, the one of the Night_

_With love and with joy they lit up the sky_

_And all did bask in their light._

"_Eldar and Maiar and Valar there too_

_Forever singing their praise_

_But now they are gone, they are dead from this world_

_And we tread on through this haze."_

She ended her silent composing. With a sigh, she echoed again, "This haze."

Elenwë lifted her head to the sky from where she'd been sitting on dull, grey rocks. Biting air swirled around her. It bit at her exposed eyes, and she could feel the ice forming on her lashes. Tears threatened to spill as she looked up and could only see darkness. Even lady Varda's stars had been cut off from them. But she could not let them fall.

"_Ai, Elentári, why have you forsaken us?_"

The host of Nolofinwë muttered and murmured through the deafening winds of the Helcaraxë. Some cursed Fëanáro's name, others cursed the Valar. Elenwë though, she forced herself to refuse such hateful speech. Instead she watched her daughter, her little Itarillë. In Itarille's hair she could still picture the golden rays of Laurelin.

Her memories of Telperion, however, never faded. She remembered the silver light he had gifted the world whenever she thought of Alqualondë. But when she thought of the Falmari, all she could see was blood.

There had been so much blood when she and Turukáno had arrived after the other hosts. She still had ingrained in her mind the sight of Findekáno weeping over two children, one Falmar and one Noldo. One had gash marks from a sword, the other an arrow through her neck.

Tears built up in her eyes again. With the wind whipping across her face, she could not afford to cry. Instead she forced herself to stand from her crude seat. Itarillë needed her. Turukáno needed her. Despite the despair, she could not allow herself to indulge the darkness for longer.

Here, there were no stars, no Valacirca to penetrate the black night. Here, there were no Trees, no wells of liquid silver. Here, there was only darkness, and grinding ice.

With every step she took, she could hear the ice sheet move. Every time she told Turvo of the sound, he'd dismissed her. He couldn't hear it. But she could. It unnerved her.

Suddenly a flash of gold entered her view. Through the haze, through the fog that blotted out all goodness, she saw it. The one speck of hope. Itarillë. Her young daughter's spirits had been dampened, but not broken. In the hours of rest, Elenwë had noticed her moaning her use of shoes, but nothing else seemed to upset her.

"Itaril," she shouted. The roaring winds drowned out her call until she got a bit closer. She tried again. "Itaril!"

The girl looked up. Only her eyes were visible from outside cloth wraps, her beautiful argentine eyes. If her hair had ensnared the light of Laurelin, she had been born with eyes like the Wells of Varda. Itarillë tried to say something, but the wind cut her off.

Elenwë smiled as best she could. Turvo, standing beside their daughter, smiled back. A forced smile, she knew, but she appreciated the gesture. So she kept smiling. She pushed the sounds of grinding ice from her mind, pushed the fear. She had to be strong. Strong as the ice.

Itarillë's mouth shot open, but Elenwë couldn't hear. Instead she heard the grinding.

And then she heard nothing.

Absolute cold surrounded her. Her body froze, she couldn't move. The water pulled her down. Into nothingness, except the absolute cold. After a moment, her head broke the surface. Ice surrounded her, and the roar of the wind deafened her attempts at crying out. She couldn't catch her breath.

Water filled her lungs. She could just see golden locks bouncing at the edge of sight. Screams echoed around her. But she couldn't tell if they were hers, or theirs. She prayed to Varda they were hers. Itarillë couldn't die.

Námo awaited her, Mandos called. She couldn't feel. Elenwë lost her grip on the ice sheet, her fingers carving little ruts as she clung to it as long as possible.

She went under again. This time, her fur clothes dragged her down. There was no survival. She screamed into the depths, and water rushed into her lungs. Freezing, icy water cut off her air.

Here, there were no stars. Here, there was only darkness.


End file.
